


A Drunken Christmas Eve

by thebritishcucumberexpert



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:56:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebritishcucumberexpert/pseuds/thebritishcucumberexpert





	A Drunken Christmas Eve

It had been thirty two days since the kiss.

It was nearing Christmas (the 24th December, to be precise) and Sherlock and I felt obliged to attend Mrs Hudson's Annual Christmas Drinkies (a necessity, seeing as they were hosted at our flat). Sherlock had spent the day chewing my ear off with his muttered complaints about how much he hated people and the drab awkwardness of social events - Mrs Hudson and myself eventually got him to shut up by sending him down to Scotland Yard to irritate Greg.

As the evening drew closer, Mrs Hudson and I sprinkled Christmas festivity into every corner of the cramped flat, and once i had finished adjusting the Skull's Father Christmas hat and lacing the mantle piece with tinsle, Sherlock (in the shape of a brooding shadow with a swishy cloak) swept into the living room with an over dramatic flourish, as if he was demanding the population of our flat see how much of a tortured genius he was. The warm glow of the fire illuminated his vicious cheekbones and for a brief second I was caught unawares and gaped, my heart doing an odd little fluttery thing before I reminded myself that this was Sherlock, SHERLOCK, my flat mate, nothing more. Even so, an excited sickness started to grow in the space between my stomach and my groin and threatened to course through my body - but I fought it and ordered Sherlock to get changed and swap his brooding frown for a more people-friendly smile, then proceeded to go and have a shower myself to wipe away the unwelcome feelings that Sherlock's mere presence provoked.

Guests started arriving approximately half an hour later - Molly first, then Greg and the couple of other Policemen who didn't give Sherlock a well deserved punch after he'd lectured them for hours on the appropriate manner of collecting fingerprints. The evening started off pleasantly; Molly and Greg quickly sunk into a pensive discussion on the benefits of red lipstick over pearl lipstick; Mrs Hudson twinkled at the two handsome Policemen who complimented her profusely on the quality of her mince pies and were rewarded with a generous slosh of punch - which left me and Sherlock alone. 

For some reason, I was loath to speak with Sherlock, so I mainly dwelt in the kitchen, where I focused on the single most important task of the evening - getting as drunk as possible. As the witching hour approached, I allowed my glance to linger upon Sherlock as he made a pathetic attempt to hide the painful obviousness of his boredom. It may have been the eight beers i'd thrown back, but I could have sworn his eyes would occasionally flit over to me before returning his limited attention to the person he was talking to.

It was about one in the morning. The endless alcohol had loosened everyone's tongues - particularly mine, and I made no effort to hide my shameless flirting with one of the interested younger Policemen (an attempt to gauge a reaction from Sherlock - no luck there). Greg and Molly were wrapped around each other on one of the plush armchairs, and eventually made their excuses to leave, giggling as they stumbled down the staircase leading from 221B. Mrs Hudson was perched on the edge of the sofa, laughing uproariously at some hilarious anecdote one of the Policemen had enlightened her with. Sherlock, who (as far as i'm aware) hadn't had a drop to drink, stood by the crackling fire, lost in thought, his beautiful brows crinkled as he tried to puzzle out whatever was buzzing about in his brain. 

Two am. Mrs Hudson was safely downstairs and in bed, sleeping off her sherry, and the two Policemen had excused themselves ten minutes previously, leaving (a very drunk) me and Sherlock finally alone. I sat on the sofa, giggling to myself at nothing in particular, only stopping when Sherlock strode over and rooted himself firmly in front of me, crossing his arms with a petulant look on his face. "Enjoy yourself?" he snarled.

Even in my hugely intoxicated state, I recognised the unimpressed tone. "Whaddya meen?" I slurred back, attempting my best serious face.  
"Oh, John. Look at you. You're pathetic. You're so pissed you can hardly talk. It's embarrassing." He turned away from me and started agitatedly pacing before the fire, his remarkable physique pleasantly emphasised in his silhouette. His tone sunk in. I frowned.  
"Whaddya yooou - yoou care?"  
"Don't be ridiculous, John. Of course I care."  
This annoyed me. In thirty two days there had been no change in the way Sherlock treated me, but now, NOW he wanted to be all soppy? The sickening excitement I felt earlier quickly and violently changed to anger, and I fuzzily clambered to my legs, my brain wanting to shout words that my mouth struggled to form. I gave up, my indescribable annoyance taking form in the shape of my fist, and when it connected with Sherlock's beautiful cheekbones, even though it hurt, I felt a damned sight better.

That is, until Sherlock turned to me, his expression one of shock mingled with horror and disgust, before morphing into a pure, ungodly rage. I cowered as he bounded forward, my confused brain telling me he was going to hit me back, hurt me, punish me, but instead I felt his hand roughly grab my chin and felt his pillowy lips pressed against mine.

I froze for a moment, unable to comprehend what was happening, wondering if i'd had a great deal more to drink than i thought, but Sherlock brought me back to reality when his cat-like tongue darted between my parched lips and his porcelain hands furrowed beneath my shirt. I sunk into his embrace, the friction between us getting hotter, more desperate, more animalistic...

And that was when I pulled back and threw up on his shoes.


End file.
